


Howling at the Moon

by BoxWineConfessions



Series: Otabek Altin Week 2017 [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Beat Generation, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Anal Sex, Frottage, M/M, Otabek is a very good boy, Otabek is also a very bad boy, Yuri wants all of it, communal shower sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 05:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12524224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: Otabek rubs his thumb over the rough pique fabric of Yuri’s shirt. He feels his nipple harden under his touch. He twists them through the shirt, and takes no small amount of pride in the way that Yuri’s back arches into the action.  “After all of those papers Plisetsky, I’m owed,” he husks into Yuri’s ear.





	Howling at the Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boats/gifts).



> For @boats, as I had to have some good boy/nerd boy Otabek for you. Also because I'm glad we're friends.

“Listen here asshole,” his roommate stomps into the room, pokes his head into the bottom bunk, and does his best to tower over him. In reality, Otabek’s a good two, maybe three inches taller than his roommate. But, if it makes him feel better to puff out his chest while Otabek’s laying down in his bunk, so be it. “Columbia is that way,” he points due east,  _ not  _ the direction of Columbia at all. “This is fucking Vermont, and nobody fuckin cool rises up out of this dump. Even if they’ve got four fucking years of King George’s oppressing the ever loving shit out of them.” 

Yuri plucks the book from his hand. Then, he extracts himself from the confines of the bottom bunk.  and He holds each end of the cover gingerly between his fingertips. Yuri looks wide eyed, fascinated even, but deathly afraid of catching whatever disease it is that he’s decided Otabek has. 

His roommate has a problem with him. Why for, he’s not exactly certain, but he has his assumptions. He says it has something to do with him wearing his sunglasses indoors. Otabek assumes it has a bit to do with  _ whatever  _ problem Yuri’s decided that he has with King George’s Academy.  

Otabek is the president of the honors society. Otabek founded the Poetry Association his first year in 1959, passed it onto some rising Juniors this year. Otabek founded The Beat Club this year, 1962. Otabek is here on full scholarship. His parents made for a good story. First, escape a satellite nation. Then, become diplomats. Last, but never least, send their kid to a prestigious east coast boarding school 

He can only assume that Yuri’s problems are similar to his own. Immigrant kid, fresh off the boat. Why are you here, and are you pink? Are you a spy, and are you sure you’re not a spy?  All of course asked by every dumbass who has picked up a Mickey Spillane novel in the five and dime. 

Where Otabek unashamedly calls attention to himself through perfect exam grades, and throwing curves, Yuri does the opposite. He vandalizes the statue outside on the quad. He snores audibly during mass. He shows up to etiquette lesson with his shirt untucked. 

He likes that about Yuri. It’s why they’re bunking together, even though Jean said that he was crazy to ask to room with a sophomore during his senior year. 

He watches as Yuri’s eyes travel across the page. His chapped lips move, silently mouthing the syllables as he reads. He wouldn’t consider himself an expert lip reader by any means, but he knows when Yuri gets to  _ that  _ part of the poem. His jaw drops, and purses back together rapid fire in a silent, “fucked.” 

Otabek smirks thinking of the line, “who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love.” 

Yuri snaps the book shut, and thrusts it back at him, “wow this is some real queer shit Altin.” 

Otabek shrugs. It’s all relative when you’re only allowed to leave campus two days a week. It’s all relative when  _ everyone _ does it, but refuses to talk about it anyway. Certainly, Yuri can’t pretend that they’ve spent the first nine weeks of the autumn semester jerking off just a few feet away from one another. Certainly, he understands that Otabek knows what kind of abuse Yuri puts himself through: rough tugs on his cock that make the whole bed lurch. He goes so fast, that there’s no way he can really enjoy what he’s doing. Certainly, Yuri knows that Otabek knows that he makes a sharp little crying noise whenever he cums. That kind of sound is a culmination of shame, denial, and greed that he pushed himself so hard so fast, and still wants so much more. 

Otabek himself holds no illusion of grandeur about what Yuri knows. Yuri knows that most nights his cock is out within seconds of turning off the dorm room light for the night. Yuri knows that Otabek keeps a jar of Vaseline on his shelf out in the open where god, and Yuri Plisetsky can see. Yuri knows that Otabek doesn’t make a sound when he cums. 

What he doesn’t know is that Jean was so upset when he wanted to change rooms. Rubbed his cock up against his thigh, and sounded like he was going to start crying. What he doesn’t know is that he’s had a thing for him ever since last year. This fucking freshman charged at him on the lacrosse field even though Otabek had two more years experience on the team and an easy twenty pounds on him. Otabek laid him out flat on the grass, and yet it was Otabek that felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. 

“You should stop reading that bullshit and work on my literature essay,” Yuri cocks his head toward the typewriter on Otabek’s desk. 

“I told you,” Otabek says, opening his book at exactly the page he left off on. His eyes quickly scan the page as he responds to Yuri, “if you want me to keep doing that, you’re going to have to give me something in return.” 

He can’t even believe he’s having this conversation with Plisetsky. He should’ve demanded that from the get go.  Except, towards the first midterm deadlines, Otabek was compromised in a moment of weakness. It was midnight. Yuri was up against a deadline, and wearing his now signature set of white long underwear. The seersucker pattern clung to Yuri’s skin, and Otabek very much wanted to feel the fabric between his fingers. Yuri raised his arms over his head, and his shirt rode high and the swath of skin showing his abdominal muscles, the v of his hips, and his navel was exposed. It made Otabek’s mouth go dry, and it made the words spill out before he could stop thinking with his dick, “I’ll do it.” 

In the present, Otabek is still willing to write every term paper for Plisetsky from now til he graduates. He just wants his cock sucked first. 

“Heh,” Yuri’s mouth pulls into a smirk. He bends at the waist and ducks down into Otabek’s bunk. Yuri’s form blocks out the light, but he doesn’t need to see Yuri’s crooked, upturned smile to feel the rancor in it. “Let me make one thing clear with you Altin,” he braces himself on the cinder block wall, caging himself above Otabek. 

All he’d have to do is sit up, and he could steal a kiss from Yuri’s Carmex coated lips. While Yuri towers over him puffing out his chest, there’s just eighteen short inches between Otabek threading his fingers into his  _ constantly  _ too long for regulation hair, and dragging him back down to the bed. 

But there was a reason Otabek took advanced math with the juniors as a freshman. There’s a reason he’s the captain of the academic decathlon team. Otabek is smart. He understands what Plisetsky’s deal is. He probably spent all of his first year jerking off in the bathroom alone after hours where no one could see or hear. He  _ definitely _ spent most of his first year calling everyone in the locker room  _ queer. _ For as shallow he looks on the surface, the self-loathing runs real deep. Maybe it’s even deeper than the crack in the limestone foundation of the very building they live in. 

He sees it in the way that he tries to roundhouse kick Leroy in the gut, and then call him a shit head. Never mind the fact that Yuri always starts it. Yuri believes he conceals it in the way that he sneers at Otabek when he’s hunched over his typewriter, and kicks the back of his chair, “hey egghead shut the fuck up.” But it’s made clear when he can feel the burn of Yuri’s emerald green eyes upon him in the locker room. It’s made clear in the way that Yuri bites his lower lip and looks downward and to the left whenever he’s done insulting him. Yuri shows how badly he wants through venom, and by those measures Yuri wants Otabek just as much as he wants Yuri. 

Otabek sits up on the bed. Then he stands slowly giving Yuri time to react. Yuri takes a single step backward with one foot. Otabek keeps inching them backwards, across the threadbare rug and onto the hardwood floor. They hit the creaky floorboard, and then Yuri’s back meets the wall. Otabek leans against the wall with his arm extended upward. Their bodies are impossibly close to one another. 

Yuri’s eyes are narrow; his chest heaves. It’s like Otabek has caged some wild animal by pinning him to the wall. Otabek leans his face in closer, so close that he can feel the hot puff Yuri’s breath on his face, but he doesn’t dare close the distance between them. 

That’s what Yuri wants. He wants someone to make it happen for him instead of dealing with all of those complex ugly emotions himself. He’d love to, but today’s the day he grows a spine. He’s got an advanced Latin exam tomorrow anyway. 

“Then let me make one thing clear to you Yura.” Otabek finds his control wavering. He can feel the blood pound in his ears. He can feel his dick twitch with excitement at being this close. He runs a thumb across the wool fabric of Yuri’s sleeve. “I’m done writing essays for you. Here’s hoping you don’t get expelled when you fail.”  

“Fucking jackass bookworm queer!” Yuri screams out after him.

* * *

 

Otabek’s parents send him a decent amount of money each month because they want him to see a tutor, which he finds particularly hilarious. He’s never gotten a score lower than an A on anything. They think he needs more advanced Latin lessons if he’s getting into Harvard. Sometimes when they call, they’ve decided that they’re worried he hasn’t studied enough Greek. Lately it’s physics. How is he doing with physics?

What Otabek doesn’t tell them is that during his first year, he paid a fourth year to write him a nice letter on thick paper, and sign it as his tutor. He’s pocketed the money ever since, because how will they ever know? They’re all the way in D.C. 

He bought the bike last spring with the money he pocketed, and now he pays the guy that owns the ice cream shop near campus to keep his bike in the shed out back for him during the week. 

No sooner than lacrosse practice is done, he races back to the dorms. On goes his tightest pair of Levis, and the charcoal colored shirt his mother didn’t want to buy for him, and he grabs the leather jacket that he keeps in the bottom of his closet underneath his lacrosse gear. 

Otabek shakes out the wrinkles, sinks one arm into the arm hole, and then turns around on his heel as he puts on the other. He bumps right into his roommate, who has been all but missing in action since their argument on Wednesday. He came in well after curfew each night. He rose well before Otabek did, but Otabek would always see him sleeping in one of the over sized chairs in near the dining hall on his way to breakfast. The sound of him furiously jerking off in the bed above his has been woefully absent too.  

“Where are you going?” Yuri huffs. He does his best to mean mug him as Otabek looks him up and down. A blush is dusted across his face. He’s wearing nice clothes, as if he expects to go out too. 

“Vaseline bar,” Otabek answers honestly. Let him wonder. Let him assume that he was going to do all the wonderful, nasty things he was about to do. Let him seethe with jealousy that Otabek had the balls to do what he was too afraid to. Let him seethe and obsess that it was with someone else, and not him.  

“I wanna go.” 

“I don’t think so.” Otabek whips a comb out of his pocket, and slicks his hair back. “You’re too young.” 

“You might be eighteen, but you’re still a fucking senior in high school.” 

“You’re not coming Plisetsky,” Otabek says as he pushes past him.

* * *

 

Leaves crunch underfoot as he walks down Main Street to old man Whit’s. He pops into the alley, and starts up the engine. Of course, he feels eyes upon him the entire way. Yuri hates being told no, and undoubtedly followed him out of the dorm. However, when he kick starts the engine, and twists the throttle, the feeling of being watched dissipates as he speeds away. It’s better this way. He can get it out of his system. He didn’t plan all of this just to cum in his pants the first time Plisetsky decided he was tired of waiting to get what he wanted and grabbed it himself. 

Otabek orders a whiskey on the rocks, and by some miracle they don’t ask for ID. It’s early in the night, and they just don’t care. Sometimes if he waits too long, there’s a bouncer at the door that says he looks way too young to be in here. 

It takes a grand total of fifteen minutes to feel his spine tingle at the small of his back letting him know that he’s being watched again. It feels different. Where Yuri’s gaze burned with a harmless rage, this one smolders. It tugs at him around the edges, until it presses him flat against the space between the barstool and the bar, and threatens to smother him. 

Otabek turns slowly to find that he’s being eyed up by an older man. He has dirty blonde hair that fades into dark brown. His face dotted with stubble. Otabek doesn’t know if he should go into the back room, and get the first one out of his system, or wait for something better. The stranger isn’t exactly what he’s looking for these days. 

“Let me buy you a drink?” He offers. When Otabek doesn’t respond right away, he assures him, “I’ll show you a good time,” and punctuates it with a wink.  Otabek wets his lips with his tongue. He’d kill for Yuri’s Carmex right now. 

“Yeah, fine.” 

In no time at all, Otabek’s got a second tumbler of whiskey. The stranger’s arm is wrapped around his waist, and he can feel the familiar tingle of his face going flush from _just_ enough alcohol. The lights in the bar seem dimmer, voices get louder and are mingled with the roar of the juke box, and the clink of pool balls. Men start moving to the back room in pairs, and everything makes its slow gradual shift into the _real_ _thing._

Above all the noise, and the chaos, and the stranger’s stubble giving him beard burn, he hears an eerily familiar growl. It’s the first thing he hears when he wakes up in the morning and his alarm goes off at 5:15, and the last thing he hears when he turns off the light three minutes before lights out at 10:27. “Let me in there asshole. I belong in here. My fucking friend is in there,” and from the corner of his eye he can see a blonde haired tornado being grabbed and hauled out of the bar. 

“What a shame,” the man whispers into his ear. “We could’ve grabbed him and eaten him up.” 

Otabek untangles himself from the stranger, and pushes him away from his body. Yuri will get eaten up alive, even if he’s bounced in the alley way leading up to the bar.  _ Especially _ if he’s bounced in the dark alleyway by the bar. His feet drag him outside, and as soon as his feet hit pavement, he’s running to catch up with the flash of blonde he can see down the way. 

“Yuri!”

“Fucking what?” Yuri turns around on his heel. His face is read, and his eyes are glassy as if his long blond eyelashes are the thin dreamy gatekeepers that keep him teetering on the precipice of tears.  “This is good right? You don’t fucking want me here.” 

“I want you here.” Otabek can feel his mouth tug into an uneven curl. That’s it. He wins. Yuri is his. “But I don’t want you to know that. Then you won’t want to be here.” 

“Shut up,” Yuri kicks his shins, and Otabek moves out of the way to dodge. 

Otabek grabs his hands, twists his arms, and wrestles him into a nearby cinder block brick wall.  Yuri makes an “oof” noise, as if all of the wind has been knocked out of him. “Stop being a brat and I’ll take you somewhere you can get in.” 

For a moment, all Yuri does is stare at him with furrowed brows and indignant eyes. Then, his entire body relaxes. Otabek lets him go. 

Yuri wraps his arms around his waist. He rests his chin on his shoulder, and Otabek can feel the hot puff of breath on the nape of his neck. When he stops at red lights he turns over his shoulder to look at Yuri. Yuri looks at him differently now. His mouth is still pulled into a frown of course, but there’s something softer in his eyes. Not resignation, but acceptance. 

It’s worth all the late nights in the library working on sophomore term papers.

* * *

 

He doesn’t exactly know Sara very well. All he knows is that she has a loft on Third Street. She lives there with her  _ girlfriend _ and her girlfriend’s boyfriend Emil. He knows that this place is the closest place he’ll get to an apartment straight out of Interzone. People drift in and out constantly The whole place smells like cloves. They play jazz records, and play music. They smoke marijuana. One time when he was there, he watched somebody bang dope. 

Yuri would probably be okay with going back to the dorms and fucking  _ right now. _ But he wants to make one thing fucking clear. He’s not just some “bookworm queer.” He wants to make Yuri question everything he’s ever thought about his roommate. He wants Yuri to want him for who he is. Not simply because he is available. 

Otabek kills the bike at the corner of third and Cherry Street. Yuri’s eyes are wide as dinner plates as they walk down the block and they pass the frat house on the corner, and “art collective” with the elaborate  _ projects _ out front, which never seem to amount to more than intricately placed garbage. Then they pass the whore house across the street where Miss Gigi stands out underneath the street lamp in her white nightie and waves at them both. Otabek puts his arms around Yuri’s shoulder, and guides him upstairs to the loft. 

Otabek’s chest feels tight whenever he opens the door to Sara’s flat and Yuri murmurs under his breath, “holy fuck.” 

Sara’s got her tits out and she’s dancing to the same Fats Domino record she’s been making them listen to every single Friday night until she’s so fucked up they can change it, or play their new stuff with Emil’s guitar and Michele’s drums. Tonight, the whole room is filled with smoke, and Georgi’s writhing around on the carpet clawing at his shirt. The syllables of whatever poem he’s reciting are lost in his histrionic display. 

Otabek’s hand trails up Yuri’s back, and settles on his neck, “still think I’m just a bookworm Plisetsky?” 

Yuri doesn’t say anything as Otabek leads him across the cracked fleur de lis vinyl of the kitchen and onto the carpet. Together, they sink into the cracked butter yellow leather sofa that used to sit at the shoe store down on High Street until the owner tossed it in the dumpster. Him and Emil lugged that fucker ten blocks for little more than a smile from the girls. 

“You mean to fucking tell me?” Yuri leans into his space and talks into his ear directly. “The fucking captain of academic decathlon, and the fucking poetry club, is a fucking degenerate?” 

Otabek extracts a pack of Luckies from the inside of his coat. He shakes out two, offers one to Yuri, and then flips his zippo open. 

Yuri leans into the flame. “When the fuck do you sleep?” He inhales too sharply, and coughs on the exhale. 

Otabek does his best to hide his laugh with his cigarette. “Right after I jerk off. Just like you Plisetsky.” 

Yuri goes white as a sheet and sucks on his cigarette like it’s a straw sunk into a malt. Then, he coughs like he’s never smoked before. Probably hasn’t.  

Sara walks over to both of them, snaps the cigarette out from between his fingers. She takes a puff, and rests it back between. “Beka, get him to stop.” She nudges Georgi with her stocking clad foot. “Show your boy how good you are.” 

Mila is seated next to them on the sofa in Emil’s lap. She pulls off his mouth for just long enough to add, “yeah, do your favorite. Do  _ Howl. _ That will  _ really  _ show him.” Then she’s back on Emil before he can argue. 

Instead Otabek stands, takes the needle off the record player, and goes for Emil’s guitar. He can do one better than someone else’s words and someone else’s desire. “Watch this Plisetsky.” He says as his fingers walk up and down the neck.

* * *

 

Yuri doesn’t take his eyes off him the whole time he plays. Yuri follows him into the kitchen like a lost child when Otabek goes to pour Yuri a glass of wine. Yuri snatches his Lucky out of his mouth, and snuffs it out in a hot pink ashtray in the kitchen. 

Yuri steps into his space, scratches his undercut with his short clipped nails, and mashes his mouth into his own. Otabek understands what it’s like to kiss for the first time. It’s not kissing a girl at the homecoming dance. That’s fake stuff, and it doesn’t count. They cart in girls from Chatham Hall and kiss them because you feel like you have to. A first kiss….A first kiss with a man when you really want a man is like learning how to breathe. 

But it’s not Otabek’s first time, and he’s waited for so long. He tilts Yuri’s head back, and pushes him up against the sink. The half emptied juice glass of wine falls into the sink. Otabek laps at Yuri’s mouth, and then pulls back. He waits patiently for Yuri to chase him, and then he dives back into him with full force. Otabek pulls away only after every speck of Carmex is gone from Yuri’s lips. 

“God fucking damn Altin, shit.”

Otabek can’t contain his smile. It’s big, and it’s awkward, and it feels like he’s showing too much teeth. “Elegant Plisetsky.”  

Yuri looks to the yellowed floor. Then, his eyes drag back upward to Otabek’s slowly. Yuri chews on his lip, and even though Otabek knows the question, he doesn’t save Yuri the embarrassment. This for every time he called Otabek a fag under his breath. “Can we go back to the dorm?”

* * *

Otabek turns on all the showers in the long row of communal heads, and the whole room fills with steam immediately. Yuri looks like something pretty from out of a grungy poem when he is pressed up against the putrid blue green tiles. 

He should write that poem. The first draft will be on Yuri’s skin. 

Yuri droops like a ragdoll almost the instant his hands are on his skin underneath the blistering hot spray. He melts into Otabek, and it’s hot as hell when he whimpers, and he moans, and he jerks into Otabek’s hand.

Except, Yuri doesn’t give nearly half as good as he gets.  His grip on Otabek’s cock is loose, uninspired. It doesn’t scream  _ hunger _ in the same way that Otabek’s grip does, and it pisses him off. Otabek pulls away from worrying a wonderful little mark on his collar bone, only to see that most of his skin is raspberry red from the heat. Otabek removes his hand from Yuri’s cock, and he whines in protest. “C’mon Plisetsky. I know you can do better than that.” 

“Otabek,” Yuri sounds drunk, and he knows that it’s not just because he’s had a glass or two of wine. “It feels so good.”Otabek cannot fault him much. It’s easy to get swept away the first time someone touches you with calloused hands. It’s hard to keep track of anything the first time someone’s jerking you off and poking you with their cock.

Otabek turns them both around, and presses Yuri’s back into the slippery hot tiles of the shower. He presses his length against Yuri’s and watches his green eyes go wide. Otabek clamps a hand over both of their cocks, but doesn’t move his hand until Yuri does the same. Yuri’s grip becomes firmer, his thrusts are steadier. Only when Yuri meets his gaze, and gives him the fierce look of indignation does Otabek allow himself to become lost in the feeling of Yuri’s hand sliding up and down his cock. Only then does he begin kissing Yuri again. Only then does he return Yuri’s thrust with equally needy  thrusts. 

“Feel good?” 

“So-fuck-fucking good,” Yuri stammers. 

“You’ve never done this before?” 

“No, I want to act this fucking-ah-“ Otabek twists his hand around their joined cocks, and strokes his thumb down the ridge of Yuri’s. “Worked up over a handjob.” 

“Didn’t know anyone could make it through their first year here without,” Otabek interrupts himself to bite his lip and stifle a moan. Of course, he made sure to leave the universal sign for, “shower later, we’re fucking around,” a uniform tie strung up over the mirror over the sink. Yet and still, he doesn’t want to be too loud. 

“Um,” Yuri stammers. Both of their eyes are hyperfocuesed on their hands franticly fisted over their pressed together cocks. “Ah-um Otabek?” 

“Yuri,” 

“Can you fuck me?” 

Otabek had it all planned out of course. Make Yuri cum first, and then spill into the crease of his thigh or the cleft of his ass. Instead, those four little words make him cum embarrassingly quickly in Yuri’s hands. His only saving grace of course is that Otabek’s right hand grip is legendary. Neither too firm, nor too loose, it has brought boys to their knees…Literally. 

Yuri’s spilling into his hand seconds later. 

They dry off quickly and silently with their threadbare towels. Yuri dresses in the white long underwear that torments Otabek in waking life as well as in his dreams. The leggings are tight on his skin, and cup the flesh of his ass just perfectly. Yuri turns around, and pulls on his shirt. Otabek can see the outline of his cock, and he doubts that Yuri will even get soft. His nipples are pebbled, and he can see the buds through the thick textured fabric of the shirt. The neck line droops against his collar bones exposing the marks. The sleeve cuffs are stretched wide and flop over Yuri’s hands. 

“You never answered my question,” Yuri tries to force the growl and the bite into his voice, but it doesn’t come out quite right. Hasn’t since Otabek chase after him outside bar. “There’s Vaseline on your shelf. I know what it’s for.” 

“Yeah?” Otabek steals a kiss from Yuri. Open mouthed, no tongue, the air smacks between them in a way that is cumbersome, and juvenile. He supposes that’s what they are. Cumbersome, and juvenile. “We can do that Plisetsky.” 

Otabek goes back to their room first. Then Yuri follows. Even if everyone does it, you still don’t want to be the one “caught” doing it. 

Otabek has the jar of Vaseline open on the windowsill. The scent of it is thick in the room. 

Yuri shuffles across the carpet. He doesn’t look at him. “Hey.” Yuri presses his mouth to Otabek’s. It's better than anything they can feasibly say between them. 

“Hey,” Otabek says when they part. 

“What do I do?” Yuri asks. 

Otabek isn’t used to this much talking. He’s used to grabbing, and putting hands where they need to go, and just pressing forward. He gestures towards the window. “Put your hands on the glass.” 

Yuri does what he’s told. The halls of King George’s are freezing this year although it’s only October. The the coil radiator is warm, but not hot to the touch. That’s how it is here, never enough warmth to bite back at the chill. There are times when Otabek swears that in the faint light of morning he can see his breath in the room. He knows for a fact that he’s scraped frost off the inside window whenever the pipes freeze. No wonder the boys here fuck under the covers here to keep warm. 

Neither of them move to fully remove their clothes. Otabek hooks his fingers into the dry rotted waistband of Yuri’s long underwear and pushes them downward. Then, he frees his own cock from his faded plaid pajamas. “Gotta get you ready okay?” 

“Kay,” Yuri responds. 

Otabek gets too much Vaseline from the jar, but he supposes Yuri will need it. He fists his own cock, and coats it with the thick viscous substance, before pressing some to Yuri’s hole. 

“God this is so fucking weird.” 

“It feels really good,” Otabek assures Yuri as he pushes a finger inside. Yuri is impossibly tight, and he already knows that it’s going to take every ounce of self-control that he has to not cum right away when he fucks into Yuri. “I promise.” 

“You do it like this?” 

“Hm?” Yuri doesn’t seem to be in pain, and so he slide another finger inside. At the additional intrusion, Yuri protests. Otabek swallows up the noises with kisses that have lots of tongue and lots of teeth. “Yeah,” Otabek says finally answering the question. “Have before.”  

“Then you should let me do you,” Yuri huffs over his shoulder. 

“No,” Otabek responds with a soft smile. 

Yuri swears under his breath, but he doesn’t tell Otabek to stop, and so he doesn’t. Otabek crooks his fingers just so, and he starts to move them, slowly and purposefully. He brushes against where he  _ thinks _ Yuri’s spot might be. Wants to show him, that all of it is worth it. “After all of those papers Plisetsky, I’m owed,” he husks into Yuri’s ear. 

“Tell me about it?” Yuri repositions his hands on the window, and leaves faint perspiration handprints in his wake. “Tell me why you like it,” Yuri’s voice is soft, fragile, and easily distorted by the faintest movement of his fingers. 

“I was a freshman,” Otabek rotates his wrist  _ just _ so, and Yuri arches back into his touch. “I was finished with poetry club when this fourth year came into the empty classroom,” Otabek interrupts himself for a moment to mouth at the lobe of Yuri’s ear. “He said he’d wanted to come to club, but he had fencing lesson.” Otabek tugs at Yuri’s rim with another finger. 

“Stop fucking around.” 

“Trust me,” Otabek comments dryly. “He had a thing of KY jelly.” At that, Otabek takes his fingers out, and lines his cock up with Yuri’s hole. 

“Did it hurt?” Yuri asks. 

“Yeah,” Otabek responds honestly. “Never enough to stop. Felt good. Kept doing it. ” 

Otabek slides in. He braces one hand on the window, by pressing it on top of Yuri’s and lacing their fingers together. The other he keeps at his hip. He fucks into Yuri slowly, because Yuri is just as addictive as he imagined. 

Yuri makes these strange, delicious little mewling noises that occupy that liminal place between pleasure and pain. Otabek is quite familiar with it himself. He works his hips in slow torturous circles, and bites down on the soft flesh of Yuri’s ear to distract from the pain. 

“Why were you such a tease?” Otabek breathes into his ear. 

“M’not a fucking tease.” Of course Yuri says this as he pushes his ass back onto Otabek’s cock. 

“You are,” Otabek insists as he rolls his hips into Yuri. Yuri cries out immediately, and so Otabek repeats the motion as quickly as he can. 

“Are not,” this time Yuri pushes his ass outward, making Otabek go deeper. 

Otabek rubs his thumb over the rough pique fabric of Yuri’s shirt. He feels his nipple harden under his touch. He twists them through the shirt, and takes no small amount of pride in the way that Yuri’s back arches into the action. 

All the while they go back and forth, “are,” and “are nots,” over and over again until the single syllables dry up on their tongue and there’s nothing but the sound of Otabek slapping into Yuri over, and over, and over again. 

Yuri takes own cock into his hand and pumps furiously. He makes Yuri cum onto the glass, and as he pounds into Yuri, desperately chasing his own orgasm, he watches it slowly slide down the wall. That too is poetic, in some sort of fucked up dirty kind of way. 

Otabek cums into his ass, but he doesn’t go get Yuri a washrag, or a Kleenex, or anything like that. He simply tugs the scratchy waistband of the long underwear up over Yuri’s ass. Then, he kisses him on the cheek. Let it leak out and make a mess. Let Yuri think of this from the top bunk as he stares at the ceiling and desperately tries not to fantasize about getting fucked again while Otabek quietly turns pages in the bottom bunk.

Of course, it doesn’t go as planned. 

Yuri yells at him, “you didn’t tell me this would be so fucking gross,” after he goes to clean himself up. He interprets this mild annoyance as being invited into Otabek’s bed. He flops down onto the mattress, and pushes Otabek into the crevice where wall meets mattress. Then, he plucks the book from Otabek’s hand. 

“Hey!” 

“I’m too tired.” Yuri flips through the pages, and settles on the most recent entries in his well-worn journal.  “These your poems?” 

“Yeah.” It’s not like it’s some kind of secret. 

“Read one to me,” Yuri thrusts the book back into his hand. “Read me the ones you wrote after you did my homework, but before you furiously jerked off while thinking of me.” 

 


End file.
